Chapter 29
MARGARET AND ELSPET STAND IN the hall of New-Frater House, the Ruthven family’s Edinburgh residence. Beatrix may have withdrawn from the palace, but she hasn’t gone very far. New-Frater House is next door to the Palace of Holyrood.
Dorothea greeted them coolly and agreed to ask Beatrix if she’d consent to speak to them. Elspet and Margaret are left alone, standing at the bottom of a staircase which leads upwards in a wide sweep of dark polished wood.
Margaret breaks the awkward silence. ‘I should apologise to you, Mistress Balfour, for my lack of honesty when I brought you from your homeland.’
Elspet had suspected Margaret was not being entirely candid with her – this has not come as a surprise. What has, though, is the nature of the deception – the impossible task the Queen expects her to perform. ‘I didn’t think you believed in anything like this – a binding spell?’
Margaret shakes her head sadly. ‘I don’t – it’s a preposterous idea. I mean, you do agree, don’t you, that it’s a preposterous idea?’
Elspet pauses, choosing her words carefully. ‘What the Queen is asking for is impossible.’
Margaret sighs. ‘I knew it, of course. I tried to dissuade her before Beatrix and I were sent on our journey. But my objections merely distressed her even more. However . . .’ She hesitates. ‘Perhaps it is better that she believes it possible? If only to calm her?’
‘You care very much for her.’
‘She has been good to me.’ Margaret shifts her weight from one foot to the other.
‘When my husband died, it was expected I’d marry again soon afterward.
I still had a good few childbearing years left in me, they said.
Without the Queen’s invitation to court, I would’ve been forced to accept one of the proposals.
They were only interested in my fortune, of course. It would’ve been unbearable.’
And now Margaret has been forced to accept a proposal from the worst man of all – all to keep Elspet safe. There can be none as vile as the Earl of Orkney.
‘But I do regret deceiving you,’ Margaret continues. ‘I confess I didn’t know what to expect when we were sent to find you – I feared you might be something of a charlatan who would prey on the Queen’s trusting nature. But I see you are not that sort of person.’
Elspet studies Lady Margaret Livingston – this rigid, spiky woman, one of the wealthiest in Scotland, someone she should have nothing in common with.
She wants to speak, to reassure her that she understands, or at least bears her no ill will, for keeping the truth from her.
But before she can find the words, Beatrix rushes down the staircase above them, followed by her mother.
Beatrix is upon them, eyes wet with tears. ‘Margaret, Mistress Balfour, thank you for coming to see me.’ She takes hold of their hands.
Margaret looks uncomfortable, as she always does when someone touches her, but she allows Beatrix to hold her hand. ‘I am sorry for keeping this from you, Beatrix.’
The younger woman shakes her head. ‘I feel quite ashamed. I was distressed, I can’t deny it, but I understand why you had to, Margaret. And you, Mistress Balfour, I am most concerned now about your situation . . .’
As Beatrix stumbles over her words, a side door opens from underneath the staircase and one of the Ruthven valets steps forward, looking sheepish. Elspet recognises him from Dunrobin – this is the man Dorothea tasked with travelling back with the Ruthvens’ cart of belongings.
‘What is it?’ Dorothea asks.
‘Sorry, my lady.’ The valet’s gaze darts between Elspet and Margaret. ‘We’ve just returned from Sutherland. I didn’t realise you had company. I’m afraid . . .’
‘Whatever’s happened?’ Dorotha asks. ‘Whatever it is, you can speak in front of these ladies – they have proven themselves to be most discreet.’
‘Well . . .’ He grinds to a halt, eyes wide with concern.
‘Out with it,’ Dorothea says. ‘Whyever do you look so worried? Oh God, you didn’t lose Mary’s jewellery chest, did you? You’ll have to tell her yourself if you did.’
‘We didn’t lose anything, my lady.’ The valet looks at the carpet. ‘Quite the reverse, I’m afraid.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘We came to unpack the trunks. In one of them, instead of its expected contents, we found . . . something else.’
‘What do you mean, something else?’ Dorothea snaps.
The valet steps aside to let two men into the room. Between them, they carry the unconscious figure of a woman. Elspet recognises the figure at once and stifles a gasp.
‘Who is it?’ Dorothea demands. ‘Is she dead? Oh my God – how did she get into our travelling trunk?’
‘I know who it is,’ Elspet says, rushing forward to examine her. ‘This is Kitty Muirhead, the woman who was attacked by wolves in Sutherland.’
Kitty is breathing but unconscious and dangerously pale.
Elspet’s eyes move down to Kitty’s belly – it has only been a few days since she last saw her, but the swelling has grown slightly.
That telltale distention that appears around six months before a bairn arrives.
Only a little ahead of the Queen, she thinks, again struck by the contrast in circumstances between the two women.
‘She’s not dead,’ Elspet says, ‘but she needs help urgently.’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake,’ Dorothea says. ‘Don’t we have enough to be concerned with at the moment? This is the last thing . . .’
‘This woman needs my care.’ Elspet is firm. ‘Please, Lady Dorothea, may I move her to a bedroom? Otherwise, I fear . . .’
‘Very well, very well.’ She heaves a deep sigh, as if thoroughly inconvenienced by the injured woman in her home. ‘I can hardly let her die in my hallway, can I?’